


Panic

by SolarMorrigan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, M/M, Pre-Relationship, bond helps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: It wasn’t how Bond was used to seeing Q – as a shaking, gasping mess of a person hunched over on the floor of his office, and there was a constricting moment of alarm that Bond used to enter the room fully and assess the situation and, finding no obvious danger, assess Q.Q has an anxiety attack. Bond helps.





	Panic

**Author's Note:**

> Another old one. Not altogether sure I knew where I was going with it, if anywhere, but I sure do seem to enjoy making Q miserable
> 
> Originally posted here as part of a collection, which I've deleted; if you left kudos or a comment for this fic there, please know that I've saved them to look upon and cherish (also, thank you)

It wasn’t how Bond was used to seeing Q – as a shaking, gasping mess of a person hunched over on the floor of his office, and there was a constricting moment of alarm that Bond used to enter the room fully and assess the situation and, finding no obvious danger, assess Q. His face was wet, his chest heaving and hands shaking even as they wiped furiously over his cheeks. A panic attack, Bond realized.

He shifted gears and knelt down beside Q, who only seemed more distressed. Embarrassed, possibly, though he needn’t have been; Bond understood panic perfectly well. Telegraphing his motions, Bond reached over and took up Q’s hands from where they were now clenched against his thighs and brought them up to Q’s face. “Cup them over your mouth.” Bond instructed, voice gentle and firm. When Q failed to follow the direction, Bond explained. “You need to stop hyperventilating. This will help.”

Q blinked and then slowly complied, uncurling his fists and instead cupping them over his mouth and nose. Bond watched carefully for a full minute, and only when Q’s breathing began to deepen did he shift into a sitting position that was relaxed enough to let Q know he would be staying.

“Do you like dogs?”

The question was jarring enough that Q, who had been staring vaguely past his fingers at the floor, focused enough to glance at Bond for a moment. He was still shaking and his breathing was still ragged, but the flow of tears seemed to have stemmed; he was calmer than he had been, at least. Bond went on.

“I’ve always liked dogs. Had one when I was a boy. Hasn’t really been possible since then, but I never stopped liking them.”

Q was now staring at Bond, apparently confused by the agent’s very existence in that moment, as though he had expected Bond to be gone by now. Bond had so far managed to distract him from his panic, however, and so continued.

“His name was Oscar. He was a Scottish deerhound. Biggest damn dog I’d ever seen.” Bond shook his head, “I read somewhere since then that deerhounds are supposed to be dignified, but I doubt if Oscar knew that. Tripped over his own feet, rolled around in the garden, spent more time napping than anything bred as a traditional hunting dog really should. Used to sit on me.”

A rattle of laughter startled out of Q and Bond gave the younger man a miniscule grin. “I’ve always been one for long odds, but it was hardly a fair fight, that horse of a dog sitting on a six year old. I think I irritated him, but he put up with more shite from me than any animal should really have had to.”

Though still exceptionally pale, Q’s breathing had further slowed as he listed to Bond. Q swallowed once or twice before finding a shaky approximation of his voice. “Good dog.” He rasped.

“He was.” Bond nodded.

Satisfied with his strategy, Bond talked a bit longer, giving short accounts of what he remembered of Oscar as he watched Q carefully. He paused when it seemed like Q might have something to add, a question to ask, and was gratified to see Q’s calm return in increments.

“You ever have a dog?” Bond asked when Q’s breathing had finally become even.

Q shook his head. “Like dogs, never had one. Never had room.” Q cleared his throat and continued with a somewhat stronger voice, “Always loved cats. My mum was allergic, couldn’t even be near a cat. So I used to leave food for the stray cats outside our block, just to see them.”

“I’m sure that ended well.”

There was an amused huff. “I got away with it for two glorious weeks. Then the landlord got mobbed by about five strays when taking out the garbage one night and figured out what I’d been up to.” Q relaxed his hands, readjusted his arms around his torso, and rested his forehead against his knees, “Didn’t get into as much trouble as I might have because I regularly did repairs around the building. Saved that cheap bastard quite a bit of money.”

Bond had a brief image of Q as a child, a caricature with bigger glasses and even messier hair, wielding a toolkit with a familiarly determined expression. “Did you ever end up with a cat?”

“I have two, actually.” Q didn’t look up from his knees, but Bond had the sense Q was holding out for a moment, “Steve and Doughnut.”

“Sorry,” Bond quirked an eyebrow at Q, though the man wasn’t watching, “Steve and Doughnut?”

“Shelter cats.” Q turned his head a bit to peer at Bond over crooked glasses, “They came with the names, but I rather liked them, anyway.”

“Of course you did.” Bond gave Q the small, fond smile he usually reserved for exceptionally clever tricks, “You do seem like a cat person.”

“I’ve been told.”

Shoulders sagging, it seemed Q was now completely propped up against his legs rather than just resting there, and Bond supposed he would have to prod Q onto the sofa before long, and hope the man would listen to the demands of his body and sleep. He could hope, even, that Q wouldn’t string himself out this far again, working late nights on little food and less sleep as he was prone to. Bond, of course, wouldn’t voice this to Q, just as Q wouldn’t heed him if he did.

Instead, Bond would just keep an eye out. He wouldn’t mention the incident and Q wouldn’t thank him, not in so many words, but there would be something fonder in Q’s expression the next time they met.

(And possibly one of Q-branch’s more frivolous prototypes in Bond’s next kit, if Q could word the requisition right.)

**Author's Note:**

> [Also posted on Tumblr!](http://solarmorrigan.tumblr.com/post/172316049618/one-day-ill-let-q-be-happy-not-today-but)


End file.
